Complicated
by PatronusRose18374
Summary: When Scott was bitten, he didn't consider the complications it would bring for Stiles and himself. As two friends try to deal with Scott's new situation, will their friendship blossom or deteriorate? And will a certain Derek Hale become the third wheel in an already complicated relationship? Rated M for later chapters. Scott/Stiles. Derek/Stiles.
1. Chapter 1

_The evening was crisp and breezy; each breath of wind caused Stiles' jacket to flutter about him. As he made his way across the dense woodland area his footsteps faltered as the hairs on the back of his neck bristled. A shudder tore through him of its own volition as the familiar husky growl reverberated behind him. _

"_Derek." He whispered, terror-stricken. His body remained motionless, defying his brain's commands to flee. An animalistic chuckle sounded behind him and he felt the wolf close in behind him. His lungs burned as he held his breath, his vision went hazy and his head spun tauntingly. "I haven't seen him, Derek. I promise. I don't know where he is." Stiles' voice shook as he spoke, evoking another chuckle from the beast's throat. _

_Derek grunted and Stiles' let out a strangled scream as the weight of the beast behind dropped him to the ground. A thick, powerful paw forced his head into the mud, grinding Stiles' teeth into the moist earth beneath him. A fierce burning struck his left shoulder, before the monstrous Derek lopped off into the surrounding trees. _

_The pain left a weak Stiles' vomiting up the mass amounts of mire he'd swallowed. When he'd caught his breath, he looked across to his shoulder; a bloodied mess of torn flesh. Stiles' paled._

_Derek hadn't needed to say anything to get the message across; "Stay away from Scott."_

* * *

As the final bell signalled the start of class, Scott staggered his way in and seated himself near the front; as far away from Stiles as physically possible. His stomach constricted in anxiety as he took in his friend's appearance. His complexion had taken on an ominous pallor; thick, heavy bags hung from his eyes and his cheekbones were dangerously close to break through his frail skin. His hair was dishevelled; his hands, arms, neck and face was bruised. He looked like death incarnate. _When was the last time he slept?_ Stiles questioned inwardly, _or ate?_

The tightness in his stomach refused to retire and by the time the lesson reared its long awaited end, Stiles stumbled over his stool, swept Scott's bag onto his shoulder and marched him out the room, along the corridor and to the nearest toilets. The moment the door shut behind them, Stiles took Scott into his arms and embraced him closely. He tucked his friend's head under his chin and rocked him comfortingly as Scott sagged into his friend's chest. Stiles shushed him affectionately as Scott began to sob desperately.

"What is it Scott? What's happened?" He urged, panic evident in his voice. Scott gulped in air, taking a moment to calm his tears, before pushing Stiles gently away from him.

"Stiles I- I don't know how it happened. One minute I was in bed. The next I- I-", Scott choked back another bought of tears, "I killed something Stiles." Stiles blanched at the look of crazed terror in his friend's eyes and, against Scott's wishes, he wrapped his friend in a vice-tight hug once again. "I don't know what I killed but," Scott whispered in urgent tones into the crook of Stiles' neck, "I woke up in the woods, covered in blood. I-"

"It's alright, Scott. You don't need to explain yourself to me, I understand. This has happened before, remember?" Stiles soothed, caressing the back of Scott's head, "Last time you woke up, you'd hunted a rabbit. Don't worry, I'm sure-"

"No!" Scott shouted, pushing away from his friend's warming embrace. Tears stained his cheeks and his ghostly faced heated somewhat, "This time's different, Stiles. All those times before, I remember killing things. I remember hunting the rabbit, or the deer. But I don't remember _anything_. Stiles, I completely blacked out. I woke up this morning, covered in blood. I," he swallowed back a whimper, "I think I killed someone, Stiles." The whisper was like a thunder storm in the silence that followed. Scott had never looked so vulnerable; it broke Stiles' heart.

"Come on," Stiles spoke, picking up his bag, "Let's skip the rest of the day, get you some fresh air. Clear your head. Sound good?" Scott nodded meekly, absent-mindedly shouldering his own bag and following Stiles' out the bathroom.

* * *

Companionably, the pair walked to Stiles' truck in a devastatingly loud silence; once or twice Stiles' caught himself looking over at Scott but noticed no change in his catatonic state. By the time they'd seated themselves in the truck, a considerable uneasiness had settled over the pair and more than anything, Stiles wished Scott would say something; _anything_.

Fifteen minutes down the road and Stiles' was deeply regretting his wish.

"I think I'm going to be sick." Scott monotonously stated, his catatonic capacity somewhat lightened by his onset of nausea. Stiles' screeched to a halt at the foot of the woods, just in time for Scott to flop from the truck onto the grassy verge beneath. Stiles made his way around the truck and began rubbing his friend's back, making soothing noises as Scott regurgitated his stomach's contents.

Moments later, Scott recoiled, letting out a shriek in horror; thrusting the unsuspecting Stiles into the side of his truck. Stiles shook his head in an attempt to still the spinning stars before turning his attentions to his friend. Scott huddled at the wheel of the truck, rocking himself in a tight ball and screaming bloody murder into his arms.

Stiles looked around terrified, unaware of what had shocked Scott so. That's when his eyes lay sight on the pile that was Scott's vomit. Amidst the myriad of lumps and bumps lay a misshapen, blood-coated finger - a _human_ finger.

He crawled over to Scott, too stunned to trust his weakened legs. He pulled Scott's arms from his face and, kneeling before him, rested his forehead upon Scott's. "You listen to me and listen hard." Stiles spoke sternly, his eyes locked onto his friend's, "This was _not_ your fault, you hear? You can't control what your wolf does. This wasn't your fault. This wasn't _you_."

Scott shut his eyes and attempted to turn away. Stiles grasped the back of his head, forcing him to look into his eyes. "Stop it." He barked, "Just stop it and listen to me; for once. _It. Was__. Not you__._" Scott nodded once in reply, his forehead brushing against Stiles' nose as he did so.

They remained like that for a moment, breathing in each other's scent. Scott's panicked breathing calmed until it moved in time with Stiles'. The pair rose to their feet and, with silent resolve, began to hide the evidence before them. Stiles set the pile alight, whilst Scott returned to his catatonic state and settled into the truck.

_He killed a human._ Stiles thought, his mind in turmoil, _Things can only get worse from here._

* * *

**So, an apology if this is the second time you're reading this chapter – I hope if you are, you've enjoyed the improvement?**

**Otherwise, I hope you all found some fraction of entertainment from my first ever fan fiction. **

**Any reviews would be majorly appreciated! I'll try PM to any who do review **


	2. Chapter 2

_**Previously…**_

They remained like that for a moment, breathing in each other's scent. Scott's panicked breathing calmed until it moved in time with Stiles'. The pair rose to their feet and, with silent resolve, began to hide the evidence before them. Stiles set the pile alight, whilst Scott returned to his catatonic state and settled into the truck.

_He killed a human._ Stiles thought, his mind in turmoil. _Things can only get worse from he__re._

* * *

Five days had passed since that night; Stiles had seen neither hide nor hair of Scott – he'd passed worried ninety-six hours ago. Now there was room left only for trepidation as an ominous feeling hung over him, choking his every breath. Each time his phone buzzed, his heart missed a beat as he thought, just maybe, it would be Scott. He'd only heard from him the once in all the five days he'd been MIA – the night he disappeared:

_Told Mum I'm at yours. Cover for me._

_S_

He'd flung his phone across the room, cursed at his empty surroundings. He'd been furious – how could Scott do that to him? Just drop everything and leave?

But the anger, the worry, has passed. Now his heart pounded in his ears. Each breath seared his lungs. His senses were on overdrive; each car engine or footstep made his skin crawl. He caught himself casting longing gazes out the classroom windows in the hopes he'd catch a glimpse of him. Teachers criticized his lack of attention in class, he'd missed two mid-term papers and, already, teachers were threatening to call in his father. His world was falling to pieces; it had only been five days.

On the third night of Scott's disappearance he'd been rocking back and forth in his computer chair as horrible images came to mind; _Scott's body being found in the woods; Scott being arrested for murder; Scott being-_

His phone had started to ring and in his haste he'd paid no attention to the caller id:

"Hello Stiles, its Melissa." The woman that was Scott's mother greeted – her voice audibly tense.

"Mrs McCall," he stammered, hands clammy, throat dry, "how are you?"

"Can you put Scott on? I need a word with him-"

"He's… in the shower at the moment. I can tell him you rang?" Stiles paced his room, inwardly cursing himself.

"Oh, alright, thank you Stiles. Do you know when he'll be home? I need to-"

"I don't know, Mrs McCall. We're doing a, umm… school project and, you know, it made sense for him to sleep here till we finish it… you know?" Stiles gritted out, planning many scenarios in which he could slowly, painfully, disembowel his 'friend'.

"Alright, Stiles, thank you. You boys enjoy yourselves and send Scott my love. Bye now." Mrs McCall, somewhat chipper, hung up leaving Stiles to slide down his bedroom wall and thump his head into his hands.

Angrily, he gripped his phone, opening Scott's message and sending a curt reply:

_You OWE me._

* * *

Now Stiles was seated in his truck, outside Scott's house. He'd planned it several times before; skirt behind the house, up the gutter and onto Scott's bedroom window-ledge. It sounded easy enough, but if he got caught what would he say to Scott's mum? He couldn't risk her finding out. No, he wouldn't jeopardise his friendship like that – even if Scott had been a crappy friend recently. No, he'd wait till he came back, talk to him face-to-face and find out what the _hell_ was going on.

With that Stiles drove home, spending the fifteen minute journey fantasising his friend's return. Would he grip him in a vice tight hug, stroke his cheek, tell him he'd missed him? Or would he remain in that catatonic-zombie-state and ignore Stiles like he had done the past five days? Treat him as though he weren't even there?

A lump worked its way into his throat and he choked on a sob. God how he missed Scott; his smell; his playful grin; his big, brown eyes; the way his cheeks dimpled when he smiled or the way his brow furrowed every time he laughed; his muscular arms, the way they wrapped around him, so warm and comforting; the way, when he rested his head on his shoulder, he felt-

_Whoa! Where the hell did _that_ come from?_ Stiles shook his head briskly, casting away the inappropriate thoughts that were slowly developing there. _Get a damn grip!_

Stiles switched on his radio, blasting tunes through the speaker the rest of the way home, his mind blank to all but the music playing and any on-coming traffic.

Pulling up, he slammed his door and marched quickly up the stairs to his room, grunting a reply to his dad's "Afternoon Son."

Scattering his clothes across the floor he bee-lined for the shower. He sighed; the hot water soaking through to soothe his tense muscles; the steam gently caressing his face, arms and legs. Rolling his neck, he shuts his eyes and, once again, his mind wandered. Thoughts of Scott swamped his mind's eye until he could no longer form one coherent thought that did not involve him.

On autopilot, Stiles dried himself, climbed into bed and wrapped his duvet about himself. Knees tucked under his chin, he could no longer fight off the pain that had threatened to rupture his resolve all day; he let out silent sobs, his tears soaking into his bed sheets.

He lay awake, crying for hours.

* * *

Stiles rubbed sleep out of his eyes as the lesson dragged on – he'd stayed up most of last night._ If this continues, I'm going to fail school. They'll keep me back a year. They'll stop me going to college. I'll-_

A familiar shuffle of feet sounded off to his right and, casting his eyes in their general direction, his heart stopped as they laid sight upon Scott. He looked beefier than usual, his hair glossier, his eyes brighter. He carried himself with a sureness that Stiles had never seen before and, as he made his way to his seat, he paid no attention to Stiles. His stomach dropped. His ears pounded. Had he done something wrong? Did Scott no longer care for him? Stiles battled nausea the rest of the lesson and, when the bell for end of class sounded, he leapt from his seat in the hopes of meeting Scott outside.

By the time he reached the corridor, Scott was already making his way into the men's changing rooms. Following closely behind, Stiles fought the urge to call out his friend's name. Shutting the changing room door behind him, he scanned the seemingly empty block.

"Scott?" Stiles called out as he walked between the stalls, "You in here?" He could hear footsteps. He knew he wasn't alone. "Come on, Scott. You leave me in the dark for six days and then ignore me? Who _does_ that?"

Movement sounded off to his far left, inside the shower block. Stiles slowly made his way toward said sound, his heart beginning to quicken, sweat begin to appear on his brow. A husky voice sounded from behind the shower wall, "Go away, Stiles. I don't want to talk to you."

Stiles breath caught in his throat; Scott sounded strained, ill almost. "Oh come on, Scott. You know I only want to help-"

"I don't need your fucking help!" Scott roared, his animalistic side taking over, "Just leave me the hell alone!" The shower wall seemed to cave in on itself as small fissures began to take form upon it. Stiles knew he should walk away but, after six days of pent up anger, pent up fear, he couldn't let it slide.

"Drop the act, Scott. You don't impress anybody. Just tell me what the hell happened to you this week. I bloody covered for you and I think I deserve-"

His speech choked in his throat as a clawed hand wrapped tightly around his neck. Scott was no longer himself; an angry looked werewolf had taken his place and the eyes Stiles looked into were no longer familiar. He pulled at the clawed hand in a desperate attempt to get his breath back, but the hand clamped tighter about his neck. His head felt thick, his ears pounded and his eyes bulged. He mouthed "_Scott," _but the monster before him took no notice. His eyes rolled in his head as he desperately sought to take a breath, his legs thrashing against the shower wall. He saw stars beginning to form in his vision and he made silent goodbyes to his father, to his friends.

With a _whoosh_ he fell to the floor, the pressure on his neck relieved. He gulped down great lung-fulls of air, as he promised himself to never again take breathing for granted. He looked up to where Scott had been predatorily standing and, in his place, a tall, dark, muscular man crouched defensively. This man kept his left arm out at an angle, hovering protectively between Stiles and the werewolf-Scott. The man growled, rolling his shoulders and glaring at Scott who, after locking eyes with the man, began to change back to his human form. The man looked over his shoulder, giving Stiles a once over with his eyes before swiftly righting himself, walking over to Scott and muttering something under his breath. Scott, without making eye contact with Stiles, jogged out of the changing rooms; his new found sureness quickly diminished.

The man turned to face Stiles and he felt his newly filled lungs empty once again. _If only I were gay…_ he thought to himself. The man before him was tall, muscular and mind-numbingly handsome. His leather jacket did nothing to hide his tense arms and Stiles could see the lines of his abs through his tight tee. The man fixed Stiles with his electric-blue eyes and took several steps towards him. "For your own safety, stay away from Scott McCall."

Without looking back, the man walked off after Scott, leaving stunned and bruised Stiles alone in the battered changing room. He let out a shaky breath, wiped his face and felt tears begin to well in his eyes.

"What the fuck?" he whispered under jagged breath.

* * *

**I am really sorry it has taken so long to update this fanfic. As I said on my profile, I have not been too well lately and, lucky me, as one virus is rid of, another appears. -_- So although I am still sick, I will try my best to keep updating this fanfic as much as possible.**

**Thanks for the feedback from the first chapter – not only have I received some pleasant reviews but I am humbled to see so many people reading my first ever fanfic. So, I truly hope I continue to please.**

**As I said at the end of my first chapter, if you guys have any feedback or tips on this chapter I would be more than grateful to receive them. **

**Many thanks to you all,**

**PatronusRose18374**


	3. Chapter 3

_**Previously…**_

The man turned to face Stiles and he felt his newly filled lungs empty once again. _If only I was gay…_ he thought to himself. The man before him was tall, muscular and mind-numbingly handsome. His leather jacket did nothing to hide his tense arms and Stiles could see the lines of his abs through his tight tee. The man fixed Stiles with his electric-blue eyes and took several steps towards him. "For your own safety, stay away from Scott McCall."

Without looking back, the man walked off after Scott, leaving stunned and bruised Stiles alone in the battered changing room. He let out a shaky breath, wiped his face and felt tears begin to well in his eyes.

"What the fuck?" he whispered under jagged breath.

* * *

Stiles didn't know how he'd gotten home. After the attack in the changing rooms he'd leant against the battered shower wall and sobbed – for his bruised pride, for his shock, his fear. And for the monster that was his best friend. He'd dragged himself up off that rubble strewn floor, staggered down emptying corridors and across deserted car parks, fell into his four- wheeler and shot off at alarming speeds in an attempt to awaken himself from the catatonic state he seemed all too familiar with.

He had no idea how he'd found his way home, let alone how he'd clambered up the flight of stairs that led to his room. He was currently curled in the corner of his room, beside his chest of drawers, staring off into space. He knew, somewhere deep in his subconscious, that he had gone into shock – but consciously he could not form one iota of coherent thought. He simply stared into space, twitching now and then, as silent tears rolled down his face and the bruises upon his back and around his neck began to take form.

Hours passed before he allowed himself to come around; he decisively rose from his foetal position, stripped down to his birthday suit and paced across the corridor and into the bathroom – regardless whether his Dad was home or not. Blasting the boiling water from the shower head, he gasped as the burning liquid seared through his skin and into his screaming muscles. By the time he worked his way out of the shower and into a towel, he held a considerable likeness to a lobster.

With towel dried hair, he wrapped the towel around his waist and re-entered his room. He heard his Dad shut the front door and, desperate to avoid confrontation, he scurried into his room and slammed the door closed, resting his forehead against the door with a sigh. He remained frozen in place, listening for the sound of footsteps approaching his bedroom… and when they did not occur, he turned on his heel and made for his bedside-

Stiles froze. He became oblivious to everything but the figure before him. Scott was perched on his window sill, looking at his feet and frowning absentmindedly – and there stood Stiles, towel forgotten upon the floor, his manhood hanging for all to see. Or in this case, Scott, who chose that exact moment to look up and register Stiles' company. Stiles could only watch in silent horror, as Scott's eyes trailed from his face, across his bare chest and landed upon his still airing manhood. Stiles watched the changes of emotion upon his friend's face; the blush that stained his cheeks, the lust that swarmed his eyes, the quivering of his lips as he took a deep breath.

The silence in that small room was deafening and when Scott finally recovered from his shock, gently saying Stiles' name at a tone barely above an audible whisper, the moment was gone. Stiles, moving at speeds he had not thought were possible, lunged toward his chest of drawers, wrapping the towel about his waist simultaneously. The chest of drawers provided him enough privacy to change into a pair of boxer shorts, without revealing anymore of himself.

Draping the damp towel over his left forearm, Stiles turned to deposit it back into the bathroom, when he came face to face with a heavy-breathing Scott. It happened in one swift motion; Scott backed Stiles up against the wall, one arm on either side of his shoulders. Stiles remained motionless, holding his breath, as Scott took a step forward, his chest flush against Stiles', his forehead resting upon his best friends. Stiles could feel Scott's breath tickling his face, smell the coffee he'd drank that afternoon and he tried to turn his head away as his face began to redden with heat. Scott delicately placed his hand under Stiles' chin, a touch so gentle it felt as though a feather were caressing the smooth skin. As his head was turned to meet Scott's, their eyes met and everything seemed to cease existing – everything but the two of them, together, at this moment.

And then it happened. An occurrence that had only ever existed in Stiles' dreams; Scott kissed him. It wasn't a proper kiss, merely a brush of their lips, but it was enough to dismantle any vestiges of control Stiles seemed to possess. As Scott slowly retracted his lips from his friend's, Stiles hands ran up Scott's stomach, resting upon his hardened chest. A crooked grin spread across Scott's mouth and Stiles' eyes saw red; pushing him away with such force, Scott backpedalled, heeled a stack of chemistry books and landed upon the hardwood floor, cracking his head upon the corner of Stiles' bed.

Stiles stalked from the room, slamming the door shut behind him as he returned his towel to the bathroom, splashed icy water over his face and blow-dried his hair. By the time he returned to his room, a good five minutes later, Scott was settled upon the window sill again, rubbing the back of his head and blinking stars from his eyes. Stiles, glaring a vengeance at his bare feet, missed the look of regret in Scott's pleading eyes, as he changed into a pair of old jeans and a baggy tee. By the time he finally faced Scott, his friend's face had iced over with reserve.

They shared a few moments of silence, in which they studied the facial expression of the other. Neither wished to be the first to breach the thick silence that seemed to saturate the air in which they breathed. Subtle noises, such as the clock ticking by Stiles' bedside or the faint trickle of rain outside his window, seemed to irritate Stiles; finally, in an eruption of pent-up anger and self-pity, Stiles fumed at Scott. A surge of incoherent babble spilled from his lips, culminating in the final sentence that was:

"How could you?"

That single, hushed question seemed to tear at Scott's seams; the icy reserve thawed instantaneously, crumpling his face and soaking his features in grief. Scott rose to his feet, closing the distance between himself and Stiles, until both stood mere inches from the other. Chest heaving, breathing laboured, Scott reached out his hand. He seemed to hover it mere millimetres from Stiles' face, unable to touch his fingertips to the smooth skin that formed Stiles' angular cheeks.

"I-" Scott choked, his eyes falling away from Stiles' face to stare sightlessly at his chest. Tears threatened to escape the rims of his eyes and he seemed unable to swallow down the lump that had formed in the back of his throat. An ugly sob tore from his throat, as he leant forward and heavily placed his forehead upon Stiles chest, needing comfort; contact; assurance that everything would be okay. Seconds passed, in which Stiles froze in place, stunned by the display before him, before he encircled Scott in his arms. He pulled him upright, their chests flushed together, Scott's head stooped forward to nuzzle into the crook of Stiles' neck. Absentmindedly, Stiles caressed the back of his friend's head, making comforting shushing noises as Scott noisily cried. His hands looped about Stiles' waist, pulling him closer still, and Stiles felt his friend's fingertips pressing into his spine.

They stood fixed in this position for perhaps a quarter of an hour before they finally broke apart. Scott's hand ran down Stiles' arm, linking their hands together and intertwining their fingers, before leading him toward the bed. Seating themselves together upon its edge, they remained silent a moment longer, collating their thoughts. Finally, Scott plucked up the courage to speak. "Ever since I did…" He'd take a deep breath, rubbing at his brow before continuing, "Ever since I attacked you in school, I've asked myself _What if? What if Derek hadn't got there in time? What if I'd taken it too far? What if I'd killed you?_ Stiles," Scott turned in his spot, releasing Stiles' hand to cup his face in his hands. Gazing intently into Stiles' eyes, he continued, "I couldn't live with myself if something had happened to you. You mean everything to me. You're the only thing in my life that keeps me sane; the only thing that stops this beast inside of me from taking over." Scott's voice would crack, and Stiles would reach out to rest his hand upon his cheek. Scott nuzzled into his hand, an act similar to that of a cat scenting its owner, and Stiles gently stroked his thumb over Scott's bottom lip.

"Don't." was all Stiles could say, before Scott drew his mouth up to his. Their lips met, as they had done before, with barely there touches. Stiles felt his stomach flutter, his chest tighten, as Scott moved closer. The bed creaked beneath them, as Scott pushed up with his knees, leaning closer to Stiles. Placing a hand beside Stiles' hip, he lowered Stiles onto his back and pushed a thigh between his legs. Lying atop his friend, he looked intently into Stiles' eyes, a faint smile playing upon his lips. Caressing Stiles' cheek with his left hand and supporting himself with his right, he closed the distance, once again. Whispering against Stiles' lips he spoke "I've wanted this for so long," before he crushed their mouths together. A lust-ridden groan escaped Stiles' throat as he felt Scott's weight intensify upon him. Scott's thigh seemed to rock itself against Stiles' groin, causing Stiles to buck up toward him. Their mouths crushed together; their tongues battling the other for dominance; Scott's fingers tracing down his chest; Scott's thigh rubbing against his hardening manhood. All these sensations seemed to accumulate, until Stiles broke his mouth away from Scott's to allow a wanting moan to erupt from his throat. Scott, unfazed by this turn of events, moved his attentions down to Stiles' neck; kissing, sucking, licking, nibbling his way up to Stiles' earlobe, eliciting furthermore moans of delight from the boy.

In a fumble of limbs, mouths and groans, Stiles' became lost in sensation. If he could remain in this moment for eternity, he would feel complete. He resented the moment in which this night would end.

* * *

**As compensation for the inexcusably long period in which I haven't updated this fanfic, I saw it only right to pay many thanks to all those who have continued to await the next chapter of Complicated; and what better way than to give you all a taste of some Stiles/Scott action. **

**As ever, thank you to all those who have supported this fanfic thus far; from those who have given me feedback to those who simply read it – every bit of support is truly humbling. **

**As always, if you guys have any feedback or tips on this chapter, I would be more than grateful to receive them. **

**Many thanks to you all, **

**PatronusRose18374**


	4. Chapter 4

_**Previously…**_

Their mouths crushed together; their tongues battling the other for dominance; Scott's fingers tracing down his chest; Scott's thigh rubbing against his hardening manhood. All these sensations seemed to accumulate, until Stiles broke his mouth away from Scott's to allow a wanting moan to erupt from his throat. Scott, unfazed by this turn of events, moved his attentions down to Stiles' neck; kissing, sucking, licking, nibbling his way up to Stiles' earlobe, eliciting furthermore moans of delight from the boy.

In a fumble of limbs, mouths and groans, Stiles' became lost in sensation. If he could remain in this moment for eternity, he would feel complete. He resented the moment in which this night would end.

* * *

_The steamed up windows opened and the image of Stiles and Scott became visible. Scott caressed Stiles' cheek, kissed him affectionately and ducked out of Stiles' room. Stiles watched as Scott jumped from the first floor window, landed elegantly on his feet and ran off – bearings set for home. Stiles remained stood at that open window for minutes after Scott had disappeared; his cheeks were flushed and his eyes dewy with want. With a pleasured sigh, he reluctantly shut his window, closed the hatch and drew the curtains. The observer watched on, able to see Stiles' shadow pass by the window. He ground his teeth together, his fists clenched at his sides. He had been warned, yet he chose to ignore. This time, he would receive more than just a warning._

* * *

Stiles couldn't settle; he'd tried. He'd lain atop his bed covers for over an hour, but images of the past few hours seemed to replay over and over in his head – he had no hope of resting now. With a satisfied stretch, he arose from his bed, drew open his curtains, slipped on his trainers and grabbed his jacket. Calling out to his Dad, he quickly bid him good bye before heading out the door. An evening walk would do him good – clear out the cobwebs, so to speak. He stood outside the front door, slipping on his jacket as he surveyed the area. With a second stretch, he headed off in the general direction of the woods; he often headed that way when he desired to clear his head.

The evening was crisp and breezy; each breath of wind caused Stiles' jacket to flutter about him. As he made his way across the dense woodland area he enjoyed the hushed rustling of wildlife through the underbrush, the offset chirpings of the birds. Autumn - it always seemed to full of life to Stiles; the colours; the crisp scents. He had never understood the aversion some had toward what he felt was the most beautiful season of the year. His footsteps seemed to develop a rhythm, seeming to harmonise with the sounds about him. He closed his eyes, smiling wistfully to himself, simply absorbing all there was to be enjoyed about him.

His footsteps faltered as the hairs on the back of his neck bristled. A shudder tore through him of its own volition as a growl resounded throughout the woodland. His eyes flew open, as he scanned the area about him for any indication of its source. It sounded again, and for a moment Stiles thought he recognised the growl. A flash of broken tiling and burst pipes came to mind and, for a moment, he thought it to be the sound of Scott in wolf form. _But he possesses a higher pitch than this. _He thought to himself, before chuckling at his own thought. He rubbed the back of his neck, surprised that he had paid that much attention to Scott's growl considering the circumstances they had been under. Images of but a few hours ago resurfaced then and, just like that, all thoughts of sourcing the growl were forgotten.

Preoccupied, Stiles continued on his upbeat stroll until the familiar husky growl reverberated behind him, freezing him in his steps. And, in a moment of pure genius, or perhaps simply luck, it hit him.

"Derek." He whispered, terror-stricken. His body remained motionless, defying his brain's commands to flee. Scott had told him all about the infamous Derek that night; how he was the one who had helped him control his animal-instincts in the week he had been away; how it was Derek who had dragged Scott off of Stiles in the school changing-rooms; how it was Derek who had threatened him in staying away from Scott. An animalistic chuckle sounded and he felt the wolf close in behind him. His lungs burned as he held his breath, his vision went hazy and his head spun tauntingly. "I haven't seen him, Derek. I promise. I don't know where he is." Stiles' voice shook as he spoke, evoking another chuckle from the beast's throat. "I haven't been near him. Please, just leave me alone." Stiles lied, desperately choking back a sob as he spoke.

Derek grunted and Stiles' let out a strangled scream as the weight of the beast behind dropped him to the ground. A thick, powerful paw forced his head into the mud, grinding Stiles' teeth into the moist earth beneath him. A fierce burning struck his left shoulder, before the monstrous Derek lopped off into the surrounding trees.

The pain left a weak Stiles' vomiting up the mass amounts of mire he'd swallowed. When he'd caught his breath, he looked across to his shoulder; a bloodied mess of torn flesh. Stiles' paled.

Derek hadn't needed to say anything to get the message across; "Stay away from Scott."

* * *

With blurry vision, sweating brow, uneven steps and a woozy feeling to his head, Stiles made his way home. He knew not how, just that he forced open the front door, trampled muddied shoes through the corridor, up the stairs and into his room. Stripping without a single thought for his surroundings, he dragged himself into bed and curled up under the covers, feeling no misgivings towards not closing his bedroom curtains. He knew he should probably clean out his wound, not to mention the thick coating of mud that seemed to coat every inch of him, but he seemed unable to muster up the strength to do so. He rolled onto his back, cradling his arm at an angle that ensured the least amount of pain to his torn shoulder and stared sightlessly at the ceiling above him. In a bid to distract himself from the pain, he allowed his eyes to trace the swirling patterns above him. They seemed to writhe over each other, taking on shades of greys and black. His stomach churned as the swirls that had been upon his ceiling for years began to take on the sickening characteristics of slugs. With a gasp, he bolted upright, rubbing at his eyes as though awakening from a nightmare. His shoulder screamed in protest and he allowed his left arm to flop uselessly to his side.

He shuddered, suddenly feeling the cold. Easing himself out of bed, he headed over to his window; the closed curtains billowed toward him, the breeze from outside whipping through the opened window. He drew back the curtains and pulled shut his windows, closing the latch before redrawing the curtains. Wrapping his right arm about himself, he headed toward his door, intent on showering and freshening up. His hand froze upon the door handle. His brow furrowed. Hadn't he shut his bedroom window and _opened_ the curtains before he had headed out?

He turned around slowly, already feeling the ominous breeze blowing down his neck. He stifled a cry as his widened eyes took in the open window and billowing curtains; framing the furious-red eyes of the wolf. Derek's claws bit into the wooden sill, the creaking and splintering of that sill echoing throughout the stunned silence that seemed to choke Stiles. Derek dropped onto his bedroom floor, standing to his full height and towering over Stiles weak and trembling body. His maw wet, the werewolf snarled predatorily at Stiles, before he began to slowly stalk toward him, his red eyes piercing through his very soul. In a rush of movement, he had Stiles pressed against his bedroom door – pinning his shoulders with clawed paws and pressing his teeth against the sensitive hollow of his neck. Stiles whimpered, his eyes squeezed shut in terror, as he felt the werewolf chuckle against his skin. _This is it,_ Stiles told himself, focusing on keeping his eyes tightly shut, _he's come to finish me off._

He felt Derek's weight lessen upon him, before a searing pain struck his neck. He heard the puncturing of his skin and the tearing of flesh as the towering werewolf tore into his neck; his teeth blades biting through butter. Stiles let out a strangled scream, tears streaming from his eyes as the pain seemed to engulf every bone in his body – destroying any vestiges of calm he had over himself.

* * *

Stiles' Father charged up the stairwell, his son's screams sending him into a mass panic. Shoulder-barging the door open, he staggered into the room, freezing mid-motion as he took in the state of Stiles. The boy knelt upon the floor, cowering in the corner and gripping the sides of his head; his fingers dug into his temples as he rocked himself manically, his blood-curdling screams sending chills through his Father's every being.

His Father dropped to his knees beside his son, wrapping his arms about his shoulders and holding him tightly to his chest, as though he could protect him from whatever invisible beast seemed to haunt his Son's waking moments. Stiles shook violently in his arms, pointing at the window and shouting out for someone to save him. Looking to the window, his Father furrowed his brow in confusion, studying the tightly-latched window and drawn curtains for any sign of forced entry. "Stiles, there's nothing there." He said, somewhat doubtfully, as he turned his attentions back to his son.

Stiles, ceasing his shaking for a moment, looked up at his Father, before turning his attentions to the window. His face would slacken, his eyes seeming to die out as he took in the state of his window; untouched, just as he had left it before he had headed out. With uneven breath, he set his widened eyes upon his Father, before burying his face into his chest. "Bad dream." He muttered against him, hoping to convince himself of his own words.

They knelt upon the floor for the best part of a half hour, Stiles cradled in the protective barrier of his Father's arm. With soothing reassurances, his Father managed to ease him up off the floor, guide him to bed and tuck him warmly under the covers. Stroking his son's head and continuing with his gentle words, Stiles fell unconscious in a matter of moments. With a weighted sigh, his Father leant forward and kissed his son's forehead, before switching off the bedroom light and heading to his own room.

Leaving Stiles to a night of fitful nightmares.

* * *

**I hope this particular chapter helped answer the various questions I have received in relation to the dream/flashback/memory in italics at the beginning of Complicated Chapter One. I hadn't wanted to give anything away in terms of what such part of the chapter might be about, but my intention had always been to give my readers in an insight into what would happen in the future to Stiles; so here you are. I hope you enjoyed reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it.**

**I'd like to say a huge thank you to those readers whom have been reading Complicated since I first published Chapter 1. Such show of support means a great deal to me and motivates me to continue working towards finishing this fanfiction. I hope to have update chapter-a-month but as of yet, I cannot promise that will occur: it seems my work-load is ever increasing.**

**As always, if you guys have any feedback or tips on this chapter, I would be more than grateful to receive them. **

**Many thanks to you all, **

**PatronusRose18374**


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